


The Shadow of the Mountains Will Not Fall

by inexplicifics



Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [20]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anger, Angst with a Happy Ending, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, M/M, Major Character Injury, Multi, POV Multiple, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26074648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inexplicifics/pseuds/inexplicifics
Summary: King Henselt of Temeria makes a series of very bad decisions, and the Warlord of the North is forced to respond.And Eskel gets to demonstrate why one should truly fear the Wolves of Kaer Morhen.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Eskel, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Original Character(s), Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Witcher Aubry & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Accidental Warlord and His Pack [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683661
Comments: 525
Kudos: 3311





	1. Chapter 1

“Emergency council meeting, ten minutes, in the lesser hall,” Yen says, poking her head into Jaskier’s rooms. Jaskier looks up from his latest composition and raises an eyebrow at her. “Word from Lytta in Hagge.”

“On my way,” Jaskier says, and caps his inkwell as Yen closes the door again. Aubry, sitting on the hearth as usual, begins the slightly involved process of coaxing the black-and-white cat out of his lap.

The lesser hall is on the same floor as Jaskier’s rooms: a wide space that he thinks maybe used to be some sort of classroom. It’s drafty, and for some reason nobody can figure out how to fix the drafts, which is why it’s mostly left empty these days; but it’s got more room than Geralt’s office and isn’t as public as the great hall, and of course is never occupied, so it works well for full council meetings. Jaskier grabs a heavy fur-lined blanket on his way out of his rooms: it’s still early spring, and the drafts will be _icy_. Witchers don’t seem to mind, but his poor human feet definitely do. Aubry grins at him; Jaskier sticks out his tongue cheerfully.

He gets to the hall ahead of anyone but Eskel, leaving Aubry leaning against the wall outside the room, and plops down on Eskel’s lap, draping the blanket over both of them. Undignified, perhaps, but also _warm_. Eskel chuckles and nuzzles the side of his neck. “Hey there, catmint, how’s the composing going?”

“Trying to find a rhyme for ‘Filavandrel’ again,” Jaskier sighs. “It just isn’t working.”

Eskel huffs a quiet laugh. “You could try rhyming ‘aen Fidhail,’” he suggests.

Jaskier sticks his tongue out at his lover. “You are no help at all.”

“Never claimed to be,” Eskel agrees.

Triss comes in a moment later, chatting with Vesemir, and behind them the heads of the seven Schools, and then last of all Yen, looking very grim, and Geralt, looking even grimmer - though his lips twitch just a little when he sees Jaskier snuggled into Eskel’s lap. He takes his place at the head of the table without giving them their customary kisses, though, which even more than his expression makes Jaskier realize how serious this must be.

Yen taps the table, drawing all eyes, and says, “So last autumn Henselt of Temeria swore up, down, and sideways that he’d be a good boy and not irritate the Wolf again, in return for which we didn’t actually sack Vizima, despite his court sorceress’s involvement in that nasty business at Oxenfurt.” Jaskier grimaces: he doesn’t like remembering that particular incident, mostly because he _hates_ recalling the sight of Eskel, chained to a stone wall, unconscious and bleeding from a poisoned gut wound. Eskel is healed _now_ , of course, but still. It’s not a pleasant memory. “At the time, he was telling the truth, so far as we could tell - Treyse, Ivar, I know you were there.” The heads of the Cat and Viper Schools nod. “Well, apparently he’s changed his mind since then. I got an urgent message about an hour ago from Lytta, down in Hagge. This morning, a dwarf arrived at her hall, bearing a letter from Brouver Hoog, the current Elder of the dwarven clans of Mahakam.”

She tosses a rolled-up parchment to Eskel, who catches it neatly and unrolls it so he and Jaskier can both see it. Jaskier scans it quickly, eyebrows rising, and then goes back to the top and clears his throat.

“To the Warlord of the North from the clans of Mahakam, greetings,” he reads. “Inasmuch as we of Mahakam understand that you have a treaty with the throne of Temeria, the text of which binds Temeria to extend the same protections of nonhumans as your own lands provide, we write to you in hopes that you will uphold the said treaty and its provisions. This spring, when we of Mahakam threw open our gates, closed for the winter by ice as they had been, we found upon every road soldiers of Temeria, who informed us that they were our new guardians and overlords. Our merchants’ protests were met with immediate violence; our letters to King Henselt have gone unanswered.

“We have sealed our gates again, and can hold out against long siege, but should this untenable situation continue much longer, we shall be forced to march out to war against Temeria. We ask your aid.”

There’s a brief silence. “It’s signed by what must be every elder under the mountains,” Jaskier adds after a moment. “Not just Hoog.”

Ivar growls, “So we get to sack Vizima after all, then.”

“Sure looks like it,” Rennes agrees. “White Wolf?”

Geralt makes a low, angry rumbling sound deep in his chest. “This is the third time Henselt of Temeria has crossed me,” he says at last. “The first two times I let him live. Third time pays for all. The only question is, Mahakam first? Or Vizima?”

There’s a brief burst of chatter that Jaskier doesn’t even try to parse beyond noting that no one seems to agree one way or the other, and then Treyse raps on the table to get everyone’s attention and says, “Mahakam as a scouting expedition, to see what’s truly happening. Then Vizima.”

“Fair,” Rennes agrees, and the other School leaders nod.

Geralt nods. “Tomorrow to Hagge,” he says. “Not the full army. Five from each school; choose Witchers who can keep their tempers, and brief them before supper. I will lead, with Eskel. Yen to maintain the portal; let Lytta know we’re coming. Vesemir, Jaskier, you’ll command here.”

“White Wolf,” chorus the Witchers - and Jaskier joins the chorus.

*

“What the _fuck_ does Henselt of Temeria think he’s _doing_?” Jaskier demands as he and the small council head down to Geralt’s office. “He has to know this is going to bring the Warlord down on him like a ton of bricks.”

“Mad as his daughter was?” Yen suggests. “Or driven to it by grief, perhaps - I’ve seen that before.”

“Mph,” Jaskier says grumpily. “It’s still fucking stupid, and I don’t like it.”

“Nobody likes it, catmint,” Eskel says. “Specially as this probably means we’re going to end up conquering Temeria.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt sighs, and Jaskier laughs and leans over to kiss his Wolf’s cheek.

“I know you hate it, but Temeria is going to be better off under your rule than under Henselt’s,” he points out as they all settle around the table in Geralt’s office, unrolling the map of Temeria and weighing the edges down with little lead troop markers. “ _You_ aren’t an idiot, after all.”

“With a little luck,” Vesemir adds, “we won’t have to deal with the Temerian army - portaling into Vizima and removing Henselt and his advisors should suffice. Whoever we put in Henselt’s place can call his troops back and lift the siege of Mahakam without our having to step in.”

Geralt looks a little less grumpy at that, but only a little. “Going to provoke Cintra,” he points out.

Jaskier grimaces. “Umph. Yes. There’s that. And Vizimir of Redania, for that matter, though one hopes he’s still too intimidated to do more than cower in Tretogor.”

“He certainly _should_ be,” Yen says. “He knows _he’s_ on his last chance, too.”

“We can’t assume he’ll keep his wits about him, though,” Jaskier says. “We’ll need to have a force ready in case he reacts badly. And probably someone to take word to Calanthe, assuring her that this is _not_ an effort by the Wolf to make a push through to Cintra.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and taps his fingers on the table for a moment. “Not Lambert.” Everyone snorts amusement. “Vesemir, Guxart, Auckes, and Zofia to be ready to go to Cintra. Lambert to lead the force if we must invade Redania.”

“Wait,” Jaskier says, eyes wide. “If Vesemir’s in Cintra and you and Eskel are in Temeria -”

Geralt smiles, just a little. “You and Ciri to keep order here,” he confirms.

Jaskier can feel himself going pink. He knows Geralt loves and trusts him, and he’s been Consort for a year and a half now, but there’s a difference between having the _title_ and being left in charge of the entire _keep_. But - “Me and _Ciri_?”

“She’s almost thirteen,” Geralt says. “Old enough to apprentice. Her trade is ruling.”

That...is awfully hard to argue with, actually. Jaskier went off to Oxenfurt at _fourteen_ , after all, and he wasn’t the youngest student there. And Ciri has definitely demonstrated a growing maturity, these last few months, as she trains with the boys and helps ensure the trainers remember their new guidelines.

“We will not fail you,” he pledges.

Geralt smiles. “I know.”

Jaskier cherishes the warm glow deep in his chest for the rest of the long afternoon of planning and readying the keep for war.

*

“Give us something martial tonight, catmint?” Eskel murmurs as they finish supper.

“Something martial it shall be,” Jaskier agrees as he stands, and strikes the first notes of _The Fall of Hagge_ , as that seems most appropriate to the moment. The hall hushes, and then several Witchers bellow approval, and many of them begin to stomp the beat, their heavy bootheels better than a bass drum. Jaskier sings _Hagge_ and _Vengeance_ and then the _Ode_ , and then takes requests, which tonight are all for lighthearted, comic songs - no love songs, and certainly no tragedies.

He finishes with the most recent version of _Ciri’s Geese_ , newly updated to include last week’s version of the goose trick, and sits down again to the welcome sound of almost every Witcher in the hall doubled over with laughter. Geralt nuzzles at his throat, chuckling.

“You realize this just encourages her,” Eskel says, through tears of laughter.

“Yep,” Jaskier agrees. Ciri, curled up in her chair and pounding on the armrest, only giggles harder. “I’m encouraging creativity, out-of-the-box thinking, and perseverance! Those are all very valuable qualities in a princess!”

“Menace,” Geralt rumbles, kissing Jaskier’s shoulder.

“So I am,” Jaskier says, and leans back into Geralt’s embrace, trusting his whole weight to his beloved. Geralt hums happily and nuzzles him again. Out in the hall, Witchers are starting to trickle out the doors, knowing tomorrow will probably be a long day. _Sleep when you can_ is practically a Witcher proverb.

Eskel stands and goes around to gather Ciri up out of her chair, cradling her to his chest like a child. Ciri wriggles energetically, body bending in ways Jaskier finds frankly improbable, and ends up dangling from his grip by one ankle, hands an inch above the floor. “Uncle Eskel! Put me _down_!” she manages to say through her laughter.

“Hm,” Eskel says, and turns so she won’t hit the table when he drops her; she rolls, of course, Witcher-trained and agile as she is, and pops to her feet with a giggle. Eskel raises one eyebrow and grins. “Bedtime for little menaces,” he growls, crouching a little like he’s about to pounce on her.

“Night Aunt Yen!” Ciri blurts, and turns and sprints out of the hall, Eskel hard on her heels and clearly letting her win. Jaskier puts his face in his hands and laughs until his sides hurt.

“C’mon,” he says at last, once he’s gotten himself a little under control. “Let’s go say goodnight to Ciri.”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. “Bedtime for _grown_ menaces, too.” He scoops Jaskier up as he stands.

“ _I_ am not going to attempt to escape,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “G’night, Yen.”

“Goodnight, little flower,” Yen says, grinning up at him from where she’s lounging back with a goblet of wine in her hand.

Geralt doesn’t put him down until they reach Ciri’s room up at the top of the tower; Ciri is already tucked in, with Eskel sitting on the side of the bed and stroking her hair gently. Jaskier sits down at the foot of the bed, and Geralt takes the other side. Ciri yawns and nudges Jaskier with a blanket-covered foot.

“Who’m I going to be apprenticed _to_?” she asks. “Officially, I mean, like Julita is to Mistress Emilia?”

Geralt hums. Eskel makes a thoughtful sort of noise deep in his throat. “Better be Eskel,” Geralt decides after a moment. “He does all the real _work_.”

Eskel chuckles. “‘Bout time you recognized that, Wolf,” he teases.

“My good right hand,” Geralt says warmly, and leans over Ciri to press a chaste, sweet kiss to Eskel’s lips.

“ _Ew_ ,” Ciri opines. “Go be gross and sappy somewhere _else_ , Papa.”

“Yes, cub,” Geralt says, and bends to kiss her forehead. “Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Papa,” Ciri says, snuggling deeper into her pillows. “Goodnight, Uncle Eskel. Goodnight, Jas.”

“Goodnight, cub,” Eskel says, and kisses her forehead in turn. Jaskier pats her leg and grins.

“Sleep well, cub,” he says, and then squeaks as Eskel picks him up. Ciri giggles sleepily.

“You’re all very silly,” she informs them as Geralt pulls the door shut behind him.

Geralt shrugs and hums.

*

Eskel puts Jaskier down on the bed, and Jaskier wriggles out of his clothing as quickly as he can. No matter how tomorrow goes, there are likely to be _several_ nights in his future where he will lack one or the other of his lovers, so he definitely wants to get his hands and mouth on them _tonight_ as much as possible.

Apparently Geralt also wants to get his mouth on _Jaskier_ , given how he pounces eagerly on Jaskier as soon as he gets his pants and braies off, pinning him against the pillows mounded at the head of the bed and licking a stripe up Jaskier’s prick. Jaskier squeaks. Geralt smirks. Eskel laughs.

“And how does our lark taste?” he asks.

“Good,” Geralt says, licking Jaskier again almost thoughtfully. “Hm.” He spreads his legs a little wider, settling himself comfortably on the bed with his hands spanning Jaskier’s hips. “Should fuck me, Esk’.”

Eskel makes a sort of astonished grunting noise, and Jaskier whimpers and tries to buck his hips, failing miserably of course. “That would - that would be _very nice_ ,” Jaskier manages. “Yes. You should do that.”

“Not going to refuse an offer like that,” Eskel says, and gets the rest of his clothing off, fumbling hastily on the bedside table for the pot of oil they keep there, as Geralt contentedly works his mouth down Jaskier’s prick one torturously slow inch at a time.

Jaskier _was_ intending to be a little bit more active this evening, but he can’t deny there’s a certain pleasure to lying there, carding his hands through Geralt’s lovely moon-white hair, watching down the gorgeous length of Geralt’s pale, scarred back as Eskel sinks one thick, oiled finger after another deep into Geralt’s glorious ass, and trying not to yell too loudly each time Geralt’s _astonishingly_ warm mouth sinks down over his prick.

He’s not sure how long it’s been - long enough that he’s moaning pretty much continuously, which makes _Geralt_ moan, which is quite a sensation just now, and Geralt moaning makes _Eskel_ growl and drive his fingers in deeper with a wicked clever twist, which is astonishingly arousing to watch and makes Geralt _shake_ with pleasure, and really the whole arrangement is just _unfairly_ arousing, how is a simple human supposed to hold out in the face of _this_? - when Geralt finally raises his head and growls, “ _Eskel_.”

“Right, yes,” Eskel says, sounding almost dazed, and pulls his fingers away, and braces his hands on Geralt’s hips, and sinks his lovely prick into Geralt’s ass one slow inch at a time. Geralt makes a sound around Jaskier’s prick, some indescribable combination of a moan and a growl, and Jaskier yelps and falls inevitably over his peak.

Geralt does not stop his attentions. Jaskier whimpers and shakes, overstimulated and desperately sensitive with it, and doesn’t even _think_ of asking Geralt to stop - oh hells no, he wants this to go on _forever_.

“Fuck, that’s lovely, catmint,” Eskel gasps. “And - fuck, Wolf, you feel so fucking _good_ -”

Geralt moans. Jaskier moans louder. Eskel draws in a deep breath, clearly savoring the smell of lust and love that must be rising from them all, and starts to thrust, slow and steady and inexorable as the tides. Geralt rocks into the thrusts, letting them push him further onto Jaskier’s prick, and Jaskier whimpers and shudders and _sings_.

“ _Wolves have teeth and wolves have -_ oh gods - _tongues / the better to devour / but first they like to tease their prey / for fucking godsdamn hours_ -”

Eskel laughs, an almost startled sound, and Geralt makes an indescribable noise around Jaskier’s prick, and that’s enough and more than enough to send Jaskier toppling over his peak _again_ , gasping a desperate cry into the echoing room. Geralt takes pity on him, thank the gods, and lets his prick slip out of that too-talented mouth, pillowing his head on Jaskier’s hip instead, and Jaskier strokes his hair and the broad sweep of his shoulders and murmurs praise, not even quite sure what he’s saying, just that every sweet word is utter truth. _Beautiful_ , he calls them, and _Glorious_ , and _So fucking lovely, my wolves, so fucking gorgeous_ , and Eskel’s steady rhythm stutters a little as he leans forward to reach around and get a hand on Geralt’s prick, and Geralt makes a startled, hungry sound and bites at Jaskier’s hip as he peaks. Eskel holds out maybe another three ragged thrusts before he shouts his pleasure and curls around Geralt, setting his teeth hard into Geralt’s shoulder, and they all lie there shuddering for a while, hands moving lazily on sweat-slick skin.

“So we can all agree, I think, that Geralt has the best ideas,” Jaskier says finally.

Geralt chuckles. Eskel snorts.

“That’s why he’s the Warlord, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” Jaskier agrees.

Geralt makes a grumbly sort of noise and tugs Jaskier down out of the mound of pillows so he can wind himself around Jaskier like a great cuddly cat, resting his cheek on the top of Jaskier’s head. Eskel grabs a damp cloth and makes a cursory attempt at wiping all of them clean, and then tosses it onto the heap of clothing on the floor and curls around Geralt’s back, making a quiet contented sound.

Jaskier falls asleep, safe in the comfort of his wolves.


	2. Chapter 2

An hour past dawn, out in the great courtyard, Yen builds the portal to Lytta’s tower in Hagge; on the other side, Lytta smiles a greeting and steps back to let the Witchers through.

Geralt goes through the portal first, of course, with Eskel and Coën only a pace behind him. Jaskier, on the top step in front of the great doors, well above the small horde of Witchers waiting for their turn to trot forward, can see the whole thing.

Can see the crossbowmen break the spell which has concealed them.

Can see the bolts fly.

Can see Geralt fall.

He thinks he screams; he _knows_ Ciri does, and it’s pure luck that he manages to catch her before she goes darting forward in an attempt to reach her Papa. Her scream seems to tear the air around them; several Witchers go to their knees in surprise at the force of it. On the other side of the portal, Eskel lets out a howl of rage unlike anything Jaskier has ever heard before, and unsheathes his steel sword, Coën half a breath slower. Scant moments later, there are no living crossbowmen, only scattered bloody corpses, and Lytta is writhing around a gut-wound that will probably kill her unless someone does something very soon, and Letho and Cedric and Axel and Ealdred are kneeling beside Geralt’s body. Ciri is still screaming. Jaskier clings to her, heart in his throat, every thought wiped from his mind except one: _No_. No, he cannot be seeing this. No, Geralt cannot be dead.

Ten crossbow bolts, and not one missed.

No.

No.

No.

Eskel turns, ripping his sword from the last crossbowman, and Jaskier can see the expression on his lover’s face: the same blank devastation he himself is feeling. Yen is weeping even as she holds the portal steady.

And Letho looks up and bellows, “He’s still breathing!”

Then, at last, the still, horrid moment seems to fracture, and there is chaos.

*

Triss steps back from the bed and sags like a string-cut puppet. Jaskier catches her, just barely, and Coën helps him steer her into an armchair. She looks like she’s barely clinging to consciousness. “That’s as much as I can do,” she croaks. “He’ll need potions every four hours - Kiss and Swallow and Full Moon and White Raffard’s - a half-dose of each so the toxicity doesn’t overwhelm him.”

“He’ll get them,” Ealdred promises, and Aubry nods.

Jaskier collapses on the hearth next to Eskel, who has Ciri in his lap. Eskel frees an arm to wrap around Jaskier, and Jaskier huddles close and buries his face in Eskel’s shoulder. Ciri is making a sort of high thin noise, has been for a while, and staring at her Papa laid out so still and pale on the bed. Geralt’s always been as pale as marble, but now he’s pale as _death_ , and Jaskier hates it, hates it, hates the crimson stains on the bandages wrapping his torso, hates the smell of blood and worse things that hangs in the air.

“Eskel,” Vesemir says softly from the doorway. “We need you.”

Eskel looks up, and Jaskier catches a glimpse of his expression. It’s utterly, horribly blank, like someone carved a Witcher out of granite. “Why,” he rasps.

“We got Lytta to talk,” Vesemir says. “She was working for Henselt of Temeria. We need you to lead the attack on Vizima.”

Slowly, Eskel nods. “Yes,” he says, and bends his head to kiss Ciri’s hair. “Stay with Jaskier, cub,” he says, and lifts her gently into Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier curls his arms around her and holds her close; she clings to his arm so tightly her nails are going to draw blood. Jaskier doesn’t care. Eskel touches Jaskier’s cheek softly - his hands are still bloodstained, Jaskier realizes, the blood of ten crossbowmen still drying under his nails.

“Kill him,” Jaskier says, meeting amber eyes squarely. “Bring me Henselt of Temeria’s body to hang from our battlements. Him and everyone who dared to support him in this _treason_. Bring me their _heads_.”

“Yes,” Eskel says again, and kisses Jaskier with almost painful care, and rises, and Jaskier can almost _see_ the mantle of command as he assumes it. The White Wolf’s right hand, his voice, his other self. “Fifty Witchers to remain here,” he orders in a voice like steel. “The gates barred: no one in or out without Jaskier’s leave. Aubry to guard Jaskier. Coën to guard Ciri. Ealdred to tend Geralt. Every other Witcher and warrior with me. We leave for Vizima in an hour.”

“Yes, Eskel,” comes the chorus from every Witcher in the room or crowded into the corridor outside, waiting for word, the same low growl of respectful obedience that thrums through the usual chorus of _White Wolf_ when Geralt gives commands.

Eskel leaves the room, the Witchers making way for him and closing in again behind to follow, and the room empties out, until only Triss and Ealdred and Aubry and Coën are left - and Jaskier and Ciri, clinging to each other on the hearth, and Geralt on the bed, as still as stone.

“Jas,” Ciri whispers, so softly he can barely hear it even with her in his lap. “Jas, what do we _do_?”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. The room smells of blood, and he hates it. “We hold Kaer Morhen,” he says softly, and stands, coaxing Ciri to her feet beside him. “We hold Kaer Morhen for when Geralt wakes up.”

“ _Will_ he wake up?” Ciri quavers.

Jaskier swallows. “He is Geralt of the Wolf School, Warlord of the North, the finest warrior and strongest Witcher on the continent; and more to the point, cub, he is your Papa, and he will do anything within his power to come back to you.”

Ciri squeezes his hand and puts her shoulders back, raising her chin bravely. “And to you and Uncle Eskel, Jas. He loves us all.”

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees. Geralt _does_ love them, loves them so deeply that sometimes he cannot find words to express it; Jaskier knows that, down to the bones of him. His Wolf will wake. He _has_ to believe that. “Do you want to stay here with him, or come to the hall with me?”

“I - I’ll stay here for now,” Ciri says. “We should take turns. Our scents will help Papa find his way back.”

“Very sensible,” Jaskier says, squeezing her hand gently. “You stay here with your Papa for a bit, then, while I go...see what I can do to get things organized. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Kiss him before you go,” Ciri says.

Jaskier nods, and approaches the bed as quietly as he can. Up close, he can just barely see the rise and fall of Geralt’s chest, shallow and slow. The crimson stains on the bandages wrapped around him aren’t spreading anymore, at least.

“Heal, and wake, my Wolf,” he whispers, and bends to press his lips to Geralt’s. There’s no response, of course, but as he stands he sees Geralt’s nostrils flare, just a little. Catching his scent.

If he stays here any longer, he will start weeping, and that won’t help Geralt at all.

“Triss, do you need anything?” he asks as he turns away from the bed.

“The green amulet in my workroom,” Triss says, without opening her eyes. She’s much too pale, and her hands are trembling. “Food and water.”

“I’ll have Marlene send you up a tray at once,” Jaskier promises, “and fetch the amulet myself.”

Triss smiles faintly. Ealdred gives Jaskier a solemn nod. “We shall keep watch here,” he says.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, and claps Coën gently on the shoulder as he passes. Aubry gets the door for him, and then, once they’re out in the corridor, stops and puts a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Jaskier pauses, looking up at his brother in confusion.

Aubry wraps his arms very gently around Jaskier, and pulls him into a hug.

Jaskier bites back a sob and fists his hands in Aubry’s tunic, clinging hard.

“The Wolf _will_ live,” Aubry rumbles. “He is stronger than any three of us. This treachery will not be his death.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispers.

Aubry hugs him a little harder, and Jaskier rests his head on Aubry’s shoulder and just lets himself be held for a long moment. Finally he takes a deep breath and lifts his head and says, “Triss’s workroom, and then the kitchens, and then the great hall. Let’s go.”

*

Eskel is used to anger being hot, but just now he feels very, very cold. Cold as ice, an anger as vast and implacable as a glacier.

Henselt of Temeria has signed his own death warrant this day, and Eskel plans to execute it.

Yen is waiting for him in the great hall, her face drawn and pale. “Geralt?” she asks as he reaches her.

“Still alive,” Eskel says, the only comfort he can give just now. “What the fuck was Lytta thinking?”

“She was thinking Henselt of Temeria would be easier to seduce than Geralt was,” Yen says grimly. “And _much_ more likely to let her manipulate him into making her the power behind the throne. A throne which might perhaps have been able to seize quite a lot more land, if Henselt managed to kill the Warlord.”

Eskel snarls. “I see. Is she still alive?”

Yen bares her teeth in an expression that is definitely not a smile. “No. Her corpse is decorating the battlements. _Several_ of the battlements.”

Eskel nods approvingly. “I am sure she will be _delighted_ , in whatever hell her soul now resides, when her erstwhile king joins her later this afternoon.”

Yen’s smile grows poisonously sweet. “How kind of you to reunite the star-crossed lovers.”

Eskel can’t quite bring himself to smile, but he nods. “A kindness I am eager to provide.”

The hall is full of Witchers, the low rumble of their voices like a wolf-pack’s growling. Eskel can hear the heads of the Schools assigning those who are to stay behind - good, solid choices, from what he can hear, older Witchers for the most part, still as sturdy as stone but perhaps not as swift as their younger fellows. Vesemir and Rennes are coordinating the Wolves. There is, for the moment, nothing that Eskel can do besides wait for everyone else to be ready.

He sits down on the steps of the dais, and draws his steel sword, and makes himself concentrate on nothing but the act of cleaning it, a sort of meditation on the steady movement of his hands, the smell of metal and oil and dried blood. After a few minutes, Lambert joins him, uncharacteristically silent. His scent is full of anger, deep and vivid. Lambert’s Cat comes over a moment later, drapes himself over Lambert’s shoulder, and smells _furious_ ; when Eskel glances over, the Cat is doing one-handed knife tricks, watching the blade with an almost manic look in his eyes. All Cats have that edge of insanity from their version of the mutagens - a volatility that the other Schools just don’t have. Normally, Eskel might worry that Aiden and the other Cats would go a little too far during the coming battle.

Today, he doesn’t care. Let them go too far.

Let the nobles of Temeria learn what happens to anyone who dares to raise their hands in violent treachery against Eskel’s beloved lord.

*

Eskel is not the first Witcher through the portal into Henselt of Temeria’s throne room. He _wants_ to be, but Vesemir was quite insistent: “We need you _alive_ ,” he’d growled, the low rumble all of them learned to heed when they were boys. “With Geralt down, we need _you_.”

So it’s Junod and Ivo and Thornwald first through the portal, the three who wear the heaviest armor in the whole army, and behind them, Eskel at the head of two hundred and fifty Witchers: an army sufficient to reduce all of Vizima to rubble, should they so desire.

Henselt of Temeria is clearly not expecting them.

There’s a decent crowd in the throne room; petitioners and advisors and assorted hangers-on, Eskel assumes. He doesn’t care about any of them, nor about the guards fumbling with their heavy, half-ceremonial halberds. He sees Lambert and Aiden pounce on the left-hand guards, Cedric and Axel go for those on the right; hears the other Witchers spread out to subdue the other guards and take captives from among the advisors and nobles; but all of that is distinctly secondary. All of Eskel’s attention is focused on Henselt of Temeria, who is cowering back in his throne, eyes wide, babbling - something, Eskel genuinely doesn’t care what.

He should maybe say something in return, but Eskel has no words left, nothing but the growl rumbling deep in his chest, nothing but the glacier-cold anger filling his thoughts.

Nothing but the sword, mirror-bright in his hand.

Men are far, far easier to slay than monsters.

There’s something almost mesmerizing about the way the blood runs down the blade. It’s much more interesting than the slumping, headless body that was Henselt of Temeria.

Eskel turns, slowly, to see that his fellows have been busy while he was distracted: the nobles who were in the room when the Witchers arrived, those who aren’t dead, are kneeling in a clump near the center of the floor, some of them weeping; even as he watches, Witchers come striding back into the hall from various doors, dragging more terrified nobles with them. The guards are all disarmed or dead, and someone has gotten the still living ones lined up against a wall, sitting down with their hands on their heads. None of them dare meet Eskel’s eyes.

Vesemir steps up onto the dais beside Eskel, smelling angry and worried in almost equal measure, though his expression is perfectly calm. “Will you speak to them, or shall I?” he asks quietly - too softly for any human ears to catch.

Eskel takes a deep breath. Everything smells like fear and anger and blood. It would be so, so easy to step back, to tell Vesemir he is too furious to speak to these terrified nobles -

He is the Warlord’s right hand, Eskel Amber-Eyed, who does what must be done. He is the Wolf’s voice when he is absent, who commands in his place. This is his duty, and he will do it, from now until the end of days.

He steps forward. The room falls silent. And from somewhere - maybe from Jaskier, from long days bent over treaties together, muttering over diplomatic bullshit and courtly protocol - he finds the words he needs: “Witness the fate of those who dare to break faith with the White Wolf of the North. Come forward, if you be innocent, and swear upon your lives that you knew nothing of this dead king’s treachery - or die as he has died.”

*

Ciri wants to scream again, or fall down weeping, or even just _wake up_ and discover that this whole dreadful morning has been a horrid dream. This can’t _really_ be happening - her Papa can’t _really_ be lying still as death on his bed, crimson stains on the bandages wrapping his torso, only the achingly slow rise and fall of his chest giving any sign that he yet lives.

But it was just last night that her Papa told her it was time for her to take on an apprenticeship, to begin to learn the craft which will be hers one day, the craft of _ruling_ \- to begin to become a grown-up, not a child. To curl up and weep, refusing to cope with this disaster, would be the action of a child. Would put more weight on Jas’s shoulders, and Uncle Eskel’s; would distress Coën and Ealdred and Aunt Triss even more than they already are. She has a choice to make, now: she can be a child, a burden - beloved, but a burden all the same - or she can be the Wolf’s cub, strong and fierce as her father, fit to someday be his heir.

She takes a deep breath, and wrinkles her nose. Well, that’s the _first_ thing.

“Coën, can you see if there’s a servant in the hall?” she asks. “We need to change Papa’s sheets - these smell _awful_.” It must be worse for the Witchers, with their enhanced senses; and it won’t help Papa any to be able to smell his own blood surrounding him. “And ask if they can find a cot for Aunt Triss; I think she needs a nap. And an hourglass.”

Coën gives her a thoughtful look and pokes his head out into the hall, saying something rather muffled by the door. Ciri turns to Ealdred. “How many vials of the potions he needs do we _have_?”

Ealdred frowns. “We should have plenty - those are the ones we all need most often. But I can go and check.”

Ciri nods. “Do. Send in another Witcher, though: there should always be at least two here with Papa.”

“I’ll send Barmin in; he won’t be going to Vizima,” Ealdred says, and leaves at a trot. Minutes later, Barmin comes in, looking grim, followed by several of the servants carrying a tray of food for Aunt Triss, a cot, and a new set of bedding, and an hourglass. Ciri directs them to set up the cot in the corner by the hearth, where Aunt Triss can stay warm, sets the hourglass on the mantel where she can see it easily, and then kneels down by Aunt Triss, who’s dozing in the chair, and touches her knee gently.

“Aunt Triss, there’s food and a bed for you,” she says as the sorceress stirs. Aunt Triss smiles down at her.

“Thank you, dear,” she says, and Coën brings a big mug of soup over - easier to drink in a mug than a bowl - and helps Aunt Triss hold it steady. Ciri’s _never_ seen Aunt Triss look so drained, not even after she healed _Jas_. It’s almost as terrifying, in its own way, as seeing Papa so still. Aunt Triss is _powerful_ , and a talented healer - if it took _this_ much out of her, then Papa was…

Was very, very badly hurt indeed.

Aunt Triss finishes the soup, and Coën picks her up and carries her over to the cot, tucking her in gently. Aunt Triss smiles at him and Ciri. “Wake me if _anything_ changes,” she says.

“We will,” Ciri promises.

Aunt Triss is asleep almost before she finishes speaking. Ealdred comes in a few minutes later, carrying a broad basket full of potions vials, and Ciri and Coën clear off a shelf and line the precious vials up carefully: blueish-pink Kiss, pale green Swallow, deep blue Full Moon, pale gold White Raffard’s. There are a dozen of each, and Ciri does some math in her head, suddenly grateful to Milena for all the mathematics practice she’s insisted on: half a dose of each at a time means twenty-four doses, and at one dose every four hours that’s ninety-six hours is four full days.

If Papa’s not better in four days…

They’ll make more potions. Ciri can help. She knows the recipes for every potion the Witchers use, and she could make Kiss in her sleep, probably; it’s the first one Aunt Triss ever taught her.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and Coën opens it for Milena, who looks pale and drawn but determined. “They’ve left for Vizima,” she says, and pulls a green amulet out of her pocket. “Jaskier sent me down with this. He’s staying with Lady Yennefer for the moment, in case something goes drastically wrong.”

Ciri nods and takes the amulet, tucking it into one of Aunt Triss’s hands. Aunt Triss doesn’t wake, but the color starts to come back to her cheeks, which is reassuring.

“Now we change Papa’s sheets,” Ciri says, and with three Witchers and Milena to help, it’s easy enough. The Witchers lift Papa as carefully as though he’s made of glass, and Milena and Ciri yank the bloodstained sheets away and spread new ones out as fast as they can. Papa _does_ seem to breathe a little easier once the filthy sheets are bundled out into the corridor for the servants to carry away.

But he’s still so, so still, and Ciri doesn’t know what else to do. Jas is up in the great hall with Aunt Yen coordinating the few Witchers left in the keep; Aunt Triss is sleeping peacefully; the hourglass is trickling away on the mantle.

Milena wraps an arm around Ciri’s shoulders, and Ciri leans against her gratefully. “I don’t know what to _do_ ,” she confesses, whispering even though she knows Ealdred and Coën and Barmin can all still hear her.

“Breathe,” Milena says gently. “And find something to do with your hands while you wait.”

Ciri nods, and swallows, and reminds herself that she’s _not_ going to break down. “Alright. I can - I can do that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Jaskier makes it up to the hall - via the kitchens, Triss’s workroom, and Milena’s chambers - in time to see the army of the Warlord of the North go trotting four abreast through one of Yen’s largest portals. The senior remaining Witcher, when they have all gone through, is Old Keldar, the head of the Griffins. He inclines his head politely to Jaskier as he approaches.

“I know little of war,” Jaskier says quietly, “so I must rely on you to coordinate the defense of Kaer Morhen, should it be needed.”

“There’s no army could reach us,” Keldar says, “but we shall man the walls regardless. Fifteen at a time, and three shifts, I think; I shall be pleased to organize it, my young lord.”

Griffins are the only Witchers to use such honorifics, and Jaskier is not used to it anymore, but he nods gratitude to Keldar and lets the old Witcher get on with it; he won’t make anything better by trying to interfere with things he does not truly understand.

Jan comes over, waiting politely until Keldar steps away, and gives Jaskier a slightly anxious look. “Is there aught you would have _us_ do?” he asks.

“Have Marlene put together a cold feast for when our Witchers return,” Jaskier says after a moment’s thought. “We know not when they will, so there is no point in her trying to keep food hot for them. And then - go about your business as normal, I suppose, but make sure there is always someone on duty outside the Wolf’s chambers, in case aught is needed.”

Jan nods, and then pats Jaskier gently on the shoulder. “I shall do so,” he says. “And do not weep yet, my lord; all will be well. There is no world in which the White Wolf would not return to his daughter - and to you.”

Jaskier just barely manages not to tear up. “Thank you,” he says softly, and Jan nods and goes off to make sure the keep continues on its accustomed schedule, and Jaskier takes a couple of deep breaths and goes to stand by Yen, who greets him with a nod and a nudge of her shoulder against his.

“Holding up alright, little flower?” she murmurs.

“Holding up,” Jaskier agrees. “Not sure how well. I’m sure I’m forgetting to do something important.”

Yen snorts softly. “Just stand here and look confident,” she advises him. “That’s what lords do in war, mostly. Running about giving orders will just frazzle everyone.”

“Stand here and look confident,” Jaskier says, and sets his feet and squares his shoulders and raises his chin and tries his best to look like he knows everything is going exactly as it ought.

It _isn’t_ , because Geralt is lying far-too-still in the big bed, his blood staining the bandages, but Jaskier is a bard, is a consummate performer: he can _pretend_ , at least well enough to give everyone else in the keep a little more confidence, a little more hope. He can do that much.

Jaskier waits with Yen beside the open portal until a young Griffin comes trotting back through, bows deeply, and says, “Henselt of Temeria is dead, my lord, my lady; Eskel bids me inform you that he will remain in Vizima with the army for some hours, in order to set all to rights, and will contact you by xenovox when he is ready to return.”

Yen nods. Jaskier says, “For this word, our thanks, Roland of the Griffins.” The Griffin bows again and goes back through the portal, and Yen closes it behind him with a sharp gesture of one hand.

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “this should be interesting. I wonder who Eskel’s going to install as a vassal-king.”

“Henselt had a son,” Jaskier says slowly. “But I very much doubt Eskel is going to put _anyone_ of that bloodline on the throne, not after _this_. He’ll probably end up picking whichever noble can swear they had nothing to do with this _idiocy_. So...some backwoods baron, I should guess. Depends on how many of them he has to execute for treason. Temeria’ll probably be better off without half its nobles, frankly.”

“Bloodthirsty little flower,” Yen says, smiling a little.

“They hurt my _wolf_ ,” Jaskier says, voice raw with rage, as the emotion he’s been keeping so tight a rein on finally breaks free. “I would kill every last one of them with my bare hands, if I thought I _could_. I would burn every noble house in Temeria to _ash_ , and topple the palace stone from stone, and salt the earth where it once stood. I _will_ write a song of this, and when I am done, Henselt of Temeria’s name will be a curse-word across the continent; everyone who speaks it will spit to clean their mouth of its taste. He will be remembered as an oathbreaker and a coward, and his legacy will be dust and rot and _cesspit foulness_.” There are tears streaking his cheeks, and his hands are clenched so tightly he thinks his nails may have drawn blood. Aubry puts a big, gentle hand on his shoulder, which helps quite a lot, actually.

Yen actually looks slightly taken aback. Jaskier takes a slow, deep breath, and fights back the red rage at the edges of his vision.

“They hurt my wolf. My beloved. My _king_ ,” he says, a little less vehemently. “And not in open battle, but treacherously, having suborned one we thought a friend and ally. I will not forgive that.”

“No one expects you to,” Yen says, and then, shrewdly, “This is why you’re not down in Geralt’s rooms, isn’t it.”

“He doesn’t need to be smelling me _angry_ ,” Jaskier confirms. “I can’t imagine it will help him heal, to know I’m upset. He might even try to wake up too soon, and strain something. I’ll pull myself together and go join Ciri in a minute; I just needed to know that Henselt of Temeria was _dead_.”

“Understandable,” Yen says. “But pull yourself together and I'll walk you down before I go talk to Seraphina about reinforcing the wards; our cub needs you, I would wager.”

“Yes,” Jaskier says, and runs through a couple of breathing exercises as Yen leads the way to Geralt’s rooms. “How are _you_ holding yourself together so well? I know he is very dear to you.”

Yen smiles fiercely. “Well, _I_ got to kill someone. It helped quite a lot, actually. Little _bitch_ dared to betray me - to betray _Geralt_ \- believe me, little flower, I took _great pleasure_ in ending Lytta’s treacherous life.” She pauses as they reach the corridor outside Geralt’s rooms and adds, “But also - I’m quite a lot older than you are, little flower, and I’ve seen our Wolf hurt before. I’ve learned to do what must be done _before_ I let my grief and rage consume me. So have you, or you’d not be here with me now. The first time he got hurt, though - _really_ hurt, badly injured - I almost did lose it. That was at Vengerberg, actually.”

Jaskier nods. “I’ve seen the scar.” A long, pale line from shoulder to hip, that Jaskier has traced with lips and fingers a hundred times by now.

Yen sighs. “He makes people better, have you noticed that? He expects us to be our best selves, and we try to live up to it. I almost went and wreaked havoc on those who had dared to hurt him - hurt my lover, as he was at the time - but I knew he’d have expected me to hold it together, to do what _needed_ to be done instead of what I _wanted_ to do. And when he was back on his feet, he was so _pleased_. Proud, almost. That we’d held it together while he was recovering. Done as he would have done.” She snorts. “I almost cursed him. How dared he be proud of me? How dared he expect so _much_ of me?”

Jaskier chuckles, a little wetly. “How dare his soul be as golden as his eyes.”

“Precisely,” Yen agrees. “That’s going into a song, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Jaskier says, and wraps his arms around her. Yen squeaks a little before she hugs him back. “Thank you.”

“For what, vicious little flower?” Yen murmurs, and kisses his cheek as they part. “Go sit with your Wolf. I’ll send word if anything goes odd.”

Jaskier nods, and kisses her forehead, and takes a moment to compose himself, focusing hard on how much he loves Geralt instead of how worried he is. Aubry makes a soft, startled noise.

“Do I smell a bit better?” Jaskier asks.

“Much,” Aubry says. “Good trick.”

Jaskier manages a rather wobbly grin, and opens the door.

*

Ciri can’t focus on embroidery right now, nor reading, and when she’s this worried, doing knife tricks would be _stupid_ , so she’s attempting to spin. She’s not very good at it yet, having only started learning a few months ago, but that just means it takes a lot of concentration, which is currently a very good thing.

Milena _is_ embroidering, because she doesn’t need to really _think_ about it, any more than Ciri herself needs to think about the basic knife drills she learned when she was _five_ , and Ciri watches her needle flash in the firelight, the golden thread gleaming. Milena is working on the eye of a wolf. Its teeth are already finished, and as the embroidered eye takes shape, Ciri can almost hear the animal snarl.

The door opens, and Jas comes in quietly. He scans the room, noting Aunt Triss on her cot, the neat ranks of potions on their shelf, Coën sitting on the hearth and Ealdred beside the bed, and then comes over to Ciri and kisses the top of her head.

“I see you have everything well under control here, darling cub.”

Ciri can’t help a little jolt of pride. She _did_ take control, and get everything set up properly, and that Jas has _noticed_ is very pleasing. “How goes Temeria?” she asks.

“Your Uncle Eskel has killed King Henselt, and is working on getting everything else sorted,” Jas assures her. “It might take a while - actually it will probably take several months, but the _initial_ mess shouldn’t take more than a day or so to sort out, so he should be home tonight, I should think. Has Geralt moved at all?”

Ciri shakes her head. “Not at all. We got all the potions he’ll need - I think he’ll need his first doses soon, actually. We’ve got plenty for now, but we’ll need to make more potions if he’s out for more than a few days.”

Jas looks thoughtful. “It occurs to me,” he says, “that others might need potions, too, if taking Vizima doesn’t go as smoothly as it ought; and even if it _does_ go smoothly, I am told shit happens in war. Do you think you could organize the older trainees to make more of them?”

Ciri grins. “I can do that!” she says, and bounces to her feet, dropping her spindle and the lumpy thread, almost overwhelmed with the relief of having something to _do_. She could make Kiss and Swallow in her _sleep_ , almost, and Full Moon and White Raffard’s Decoction aren’t _that_ much harder. The older trainees, the ones almost old enough for the first Trial, and the young Witchers still in training, all know how to brew them, too. If she gets all of them working together in Aunt Triss’s big stillroom, they could probably make enough for the entire _army_ , and none of these potions goes _bad_ , unlike some of the more complicated ones, so any excess can be stored easily enough.

“I can do that,” she repeats, and hugs Jas tightly. “Thank you, Jas.”

“Darling cub,” Jas says, and kisses her head again. “Go on, then.”

Ciri hugs him a little tighter, until Jas squeaks, and then almost tiptoes over to the bed, and bends down to kiss her Papa’s forehead. “I’m going to go make healing potions for everyone,” she whispers, to his too-still form. “But I’ll come back. Rest and heal, Papa.” He doesn’t move, of course, but she watches his chest rise and fall, still too slow but sure as the sunrise, and kisses his forehead again before she turns away.

Coën falls in beside her as she leaves the room. “Where to first?”

“The trainee wing,” Ciri says. “And then Aunt Triss’s workroom.”

She’s gotten much more familiar with the trainee wing in the last four months. Before she accidentally turned Jas into little Julian, and then Aubry shamed the Witchers into changing the training, she wasn’t exactly _forbidden_ from spending time around the trainees, but it certainly wasn’t _encouraged_ , and anyhow between all of her various lessons, she was kept busy enough not to really have _time_ to go poke her nose where it wasn’t wanted. But she’s been training _with_ the trainees, these last few months, at least for weapons work and Witcher studies - potions, monsters, and the essential skills of caring for arms and armor. She’s _also_ still got her history and geography and court etiquette and mathematics lessons with Jas and Milena, and her sorcery lessons with Aunt Yen, so her days are very full. She’s genuinely not sure how she’s going to fit in her new apprenticeship with Uncle Eskel...though she probably doesn’t have to worry about that for another few days at least.

She would _far_ rather be worrying about that, right now, though.

The trainees are gathered in the big common room at the end of the hall of dormitories, clustered in little groups and muttering to each other. Some of the older ones are trying to practice sword forms - unarmed, thank the gods - and there’s a rather desultory wrestling match going on, but for the most part, all of them, like Ciri herself, are just _worrying_.

Like Ciri, they’ve never dreamed the White Wolf could actually be taken down.

He’s _not_ down, Ciri reminds herself fiercely. He’s alive, and he’ll recover, and he’ll be _fine_. He’s her Papa, the strongest bravest _best_ man in the whole world, and the strongest Witcher ever.

She straightens her shoulders. Her Papa is the strongest, best Witcher in the world, and she is his daughter, and in his absence, she and Jas have been entrusted with the care of his keep and his people. So she’s going to make him _proud_.

“Michal, Eryk,” she greets two of the oldest trainees - Witchers, really, cat-eyes and all, who have passed all the Trials but the Medallion, and will be ready to go out on the Path by next year. They’re a little wary of her, have been since she first started joining the trainees at their weapons work, but they’re the natural leaders of their fellows, and Ciri knows from watching her Papa that competent subordinates are the most important resource a ruler can have. She might be eight years younger than they are, and far physically weaker, but she is the White Wolf’s daughter and heir. She has the right to speak for him - or at least for Uncle Eskel and Jas. She just has to _believe_ that. “Gather the trainees, please. I have news, and tasks for you all.”

Michal gives her a dubious look, but he and Eryk round the rest of the trainees up. There are quite a few of them, though not, Ciri knows, as many as there used to be. Cedric and Axel have told her stories, now and again, of the time before Aunt Triss made the testing potion, and how in order to have even two or three survivors of each School’s mutagens, there had to be seventy boys in each training year. Now, when there is very nearly a guarantee that every boy will survive the Grasses, each School chooses only three boys - and only brings in new trainees every three years. There are currently only forty-two unmutated trainees, all younger than Ciri is, and just over a hundred young Witchers who have passed the Trial of the Grasses and are working their way towards the Trials of the Mountain and the Medallion.

“My father is resting,” she says, once the trainees are gathered around her, the shortest children in front, the tall young Witchers almost ready for their medallions at the back. “Triss Merigold has healed him. But he will need many doses of Kiss, and Swallow, and Full Moon, and White Raffard’s Decoction; and the Witchers of the army may well need them, too, if they are injured in Temeria.” She takes a deep breath. “The Witchers who remain in Kaer Morhen must remain on guard; the servants do not know how to brew potions; and Triss is exhausted. But _we_ have no duties until this crisis is over, and almost all of us have the necessary skills and knowledge. I have the key to access the potions workroom. I am going there now. Will you aid me in the brewing?”

There’s a brief silence, and then Michal, whose medallion, someday soon, will have a snarling bear’s head on it, snorts and grins.

“Sure as hell _rather_ have something to do,” he says gruffly. “An’ if we break up into shifts, we can get a fucking _lot_ done without crowding each other.”

Ciri nods. “Shifts are a good idea,” she says. “But also, your year, and maybe the year below, should go and offer to support the Witchers on the walls. An extra forty people might help a _lot_. And if you bring the eight-year-olds, they can run errands for the wall-guards. That will leave me plenty of help in the stillroom.”

“Huh,” Michal says, eyeing her thoughtfully. “That’s downright sensible, wolf cub. Alright. We’ll take the youngsters and go see what use we can be. Rafal, Zenon, split the rest up between you and make yourselves helpful to the wolf cub, why don’t you.”

Rafal and Zenon are two years younger than Michal; they’re the two best of their year, Ciri knows. They give her slightly skeptical looks, but they nod. Michal and Eryk round up the oldest and youngest of the trainees - perching eight-year-old little brothers on the shoulders of their elders for ease of transport, to the transparent delight of the children - and head out, looking eager to have something to _do_.

Ciri doesn’t miss the fact that each of them nods to her as he passes, though. It’s not a salute, not quite, but it’s more respect than even her prowess with weapons has ever earned her. Anyone can be good with a blade, after all. Today she has started to prove she _is_ the Wolf’s cub, his heir in more than name.

“Alright,” she says, once Michal and Eryk have led their little troop out. “Who’s coming with me for the first shift?”

Konrad is not the largest nor the fastest of the eleven-year-olds who Ciri usually trains with, but he’s _definitely_ the smartest, and his year-mates tend to follow his lead. He’s also decided Ciri is the best thing since hot springs, because she’s the one who talked the instructors into letting him have free rein in the library. “We’ll all come,” he says, gesturing to his year-mates. “Us and half of the older boys would make most sense; they can make sure we get everything right.”

Rafal nods. “Smart,” he agrees. “Twenty with me, the rest with Zenon this afternoon. Let’s go.”

Ciri leads the way out of the trainee wing and down to Aunt Triss’s workroom with forty boys clattering along behind her. Coën leans down as they reach a staircase, far enough ahead that even the young Witchers can’t quite hear, and says softly, “Well done, wolf cub.”

She opens the door to the workroom feeling very proud indeed, and ushers her little cohort into place at the long tables. “Work in teams,” she orders. “Three per team ought to work. Two teams on White Raffard’s, three each on Kiss and Swallow and Full Moon. Coën can make sure we’re all doing it right. And I’ll work with Konrad’s team, on White Raffard’s.” It’s the hardest of the four potions; an extra pair of hands will be very useful.

“Aye, cub,” Rafal says, mussing her hair as he goes by, but there’s genuine respect in his tone, and in the soft echo of his words that rises from the throat of every trainee - the very faintest imitation of the great roaring response that greets her Papa’s command.

Ciri swallows hard, and sets to work.

*

Ealdred flips the hourglass and nods. “Time,” he says, and Jaskier pushes himself up out of the armchair. He’s been trying to compose - well, he’s been pretending to try to compose. Mostly, he’s been staring at Geralt, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, and thinking about very nearly nothing at all. Milena, beside him, has finished the first wolf in her pattern and is well into the second.

“How can I help?” Jaskier asks.

“I’ll sit him up a bit,” Ealdred says. “You give him the potions. He’ll probably take them easier from you, even out of it like this. A few drops at a time, and if he won’t swallow, stroke his throat gently.”

Jaskier nods and sits down next to Geralt on the bed. Aubry hands him a potion vial as Ealdred props Geralt very, very gently up, just a little.

“Come on, my love,” Jaskier whispers, brushing a finger over Geralt’s lips. They open far more easily than he expected. Ealdred’s eyebrows go up. “Drink for me,” Jaskier murmurs, and tips the first few drops into Geralt’s mouth. “Drink for me, and heal.”

There’s a brief pause. Jaskier is fairly sure neither he nor Aubry nor Ealdred is breathing. And then, slowly, Geralt’s lips close, and he swallows.

“ _Yes_ ,” Jaskier hisses. “Oh, well done, my love.” He strokes Geralt’s cheek, and beams as Geralt’s mouth falls open again. “Oh, my love, my wolf, my heart.” He murmurs endearments and encouragement as Geralt obediently drinks down half a dose each of four different little vials, and then Ealdred carefully lowers Geralt back down onto the bed, and Jaskier bends to rest his forehead gently against his beloved’s.

Geralt hasn’t shown any sign of waking, but he’s clearly in there somewhere - aware enough to hear Jaskier, at least.

Jaskier stays there, bent over his beloved, and tries very hard to think about nothing but how much he loves Geralt, so that the scent which should fill Geralt’s senses will be pure honey and nothing more.

Let there be only love to guide him home.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s very late in the evening by the time Eskel _finally_ lets himself sheathe his sword. The new king of Temeria, a wide-eyed lad with the improbable name of Griffin, lets out a shuddering breath of relief at the sight; so do the new king’s council, most of whom are just as new to their roles as their monarch. The conspiracy to slay the White Wolf was widespread among the great nobles of Temeria, and Eskel’s sword has seen more use today than it has in months.

They’re going to tell tales of this, he knows. Of the day the White Wolf’s shadow slew half the nobility of Temeria, without hesitation or remorse.

Let them.

Let them remember that wolves have _teeth_.

He leaves Vesemir and Guxart and a dozen others to help make sure Griffin _stays_ on his new throne, and remembers to whom he owes his fealty - because Temeria is the Wolf’s, now, irrevocably - and gathers the rest of the army back in the throne room. Yennefer must be waiting by her xenovox; she opens the portal almost before Eskel can finish requesting it, and Eskel waves the army through, rank after rank of Witchers, some of them with blood spattered on their armor, a few with _extremely_ minor injuries. As invasions go, this one was almost _terrifyingly_ easy, mostly because for _some_ idiotic reason Henselt wasn’t expecting them...and most of Temeria’s soldiers are up in the mountains near Hagge.

Griffin has already sent out the couriers to summon them back; that was the first thing he did, in fact, after swearing fealty to the Wolf. It will take a few days for the message to get to the army, but that’s alright. A couple of days here or there won’t cripple Mahakam, and the army is more likely to respond properly to couriers than to irritated Witchers.

Yen closes the portal behind him as he steps through into Kaer Morhen’s great hall, and nods a greeting. “Geralt’s still asleep,” she says quietly as he joins her on the dais steps. “Our little flower and the cub are with him. Triss woke up a few hours ago and is supervising the trainees making potions.”

Eskel raises an eyebrow. “Smart. Whose idea was that?”

“Ciri’s, actually,” Yen says.

Eskel blinks. “Cub’s growing up,” he says at last.

Yen nods. “Growing up fast,” she agrees. “Who’d you install on the Temerian throne, then?”

“Minor baron from out in the middle of fuckoff nowhere, name of Griffin,” Eskel says. “Had to get him portaled in. But he’s from some sort of _very_ distant cadet branch to the royal line, he knew nothing at all about Henselt’s fuckery, and he swore to the Wolf and meant it; and we couldn’t find anyone among his vassals who spoke against his character.”

“Well, let’s hope he’s got the brains the gods gave geese,” Yen sighs. “Go fall over, you look like shit. None of that’s your blood, is it?”

Eskel shakes his head. “Henselt’s, mostly. A few others. His idiot son challenged me to a duel.”

“I imagine that went _very_ well for him,” Yen drawls.

“It went very quickly, at least,” Eskel allows. Henselt’s son had lasted against a Witcher about as long as any half-trained human would.

Not very.

“Go look after our family,” Yen says gently. “I’m for bed. Time enough to deal with the rest of this mess tomorrow.”

Eskel nods, and goes. The rest of the army has dispersed calmly enough, mostly down to the baths if Eskel’s any judge, and he wants a bath himself -

But more than that, he _needs_ to see Geralt. Geralt, and Jaskier, and Ciri. His family.

Aubry is meditating outside the door to Geralt’s rooms, and rouses long enough to nod to Eskel; Eskel nods back, grateful as always for Aubry’s unwavering loyalty. Inside, Ealdred is meditating, and Coën is watching an hourglass on the mantel as the last few grains of sand trickle through the narrow neck.

He flips the hourglass neatly and turns to nod a greeting. “Eskel. Help me give the Wolf his next dose before you sleep?”

“Of course,” Eskel says. The bottles have been set out already, and Geralt -

Gods, he looks so much better already. He’s still unconscious, but there’s a faint hint of color in his pale cheeks, and the bandages wrapped around his torso are white, not soaked crimson. His breathing is slow and easy.

Jaskier and Ciri are curled up on the other side of the big bed, clinging to each other, fast asleep. Well, it’s past midnight, and fear is exhausting. They both smell fairly contented, though - there’s still a bitter edge to their scents, but not as bad as it was when Eskel left, and Jaskier’s scent, thank every god, is mostly the soft honey-and-warm-bread that it usually is when he is asleep.

“He drinks easily if it’s Jaskier asking him to,” Coën says. “Might be it’ll work if it’s you, too.”

Eskel nods, and takes the first vial as Coën lifts Geralt’s head and shoulders gently from the bed. “Hey now, Wolf,” he murmurs, leaning in so Geralt can get a good whiff of his scent. Maybe he _should_ have bathed - but Geralt’s smelt him blood-spattered before. “Drink, Wolf,” Eskel urges, tipping a tiny sip of Kiss into Geralt’s half-open mouth, and Geralt obligingly swallows it down.

“Oh good, it works for you too,” Coën says, grinning, and Eskel nods and coaxes half a dose of each potion down Geralt’s throat in tiny, careful sips. And then he presses a kiss to Geralt’s forehead and Coën lowers Geralt down again, and Eskel doesn’t think he’s imagining the way Geralt looks even a little better than he did before.

He strips out of his bloodied armor and sets his swords on the rack and takes the damp cloth Coën hands him to wipe the worst of the blood and sweat away, and then crawls into the middle of the bed, his back against Jaskier’s and one hand spread very gently across Geralt’s chest, feeling the slow, steady drumbeat of his beloved lord’s heart beneath his palm, and the last of his feral rage finally, _finally_ drains away.

*

Jaskier wakes in the wee hours of the morning to Ealdred’s hand on his shoulder. The Griffin arches an eyebrow, and Jaskier nods and extricates himself carefully from between Ciri and Eskel - when did Eskel get back? Thank the _gods_ , he looks fine, just tired enough to sleep through Jaskier getting up - and comes around the bed to help Ealdred dose Geralt. Eskel’s hand is lying across Geralt’s chest, as if to shield his beloved lord from any further harm.

“He’s looking better,” Jaskier says quietly as they set up the potions on the bedside table.

Ealdred nods. “I’m no mage,” he says, voice low enough that neither Eskel nor Coën, meditating on the hearth, so much as twitch. “But I think he’ll wake sometime today.” He shakes his head. “Any other Witcher would be dead,” he admits.

Jaskier swallows. He kind of suspected, though he’s been adamantly refusing to think about it. “Then thank the gods he is not any other Witcher,” he murmurs as Ealdred lifts Geralt’s head and shoulders.

And Geralt makes a _sound_.

It’s not much of a sound - a low hum, nothing more - but Jaskier thinks it might actually be the most beautiful noise he’s ever heard.

“Now that,” Ealdred says, “is a _damned_ good sign.”

Jaskier nods, biting back tears of relief and joy, and begins coaxing the potions down Geralt’s throat. Geralt swallows more easily than he has been, and after the last dose, when Ealdred lowers him to the bed again, he makes another soft humming sound. Jaskier bends down to press his forehead to Geralt’s, whispering words of adoration and ignoring the tears that streak his face. One of them falls and splashes on Geralt’s lips, and Geralt _licks_ them and hums again.

“Gods,” Jaskier whispers, and kisses his beloved very gently. “Rest, my wolf. Rest and heal.”

Geralt doesn’t make any further sound, but he does seem to relax, just a little. Jaskier stands up and scrubs his hands over his face. Ealdred hands him a handkerchief. Jaskier wipes his eyes and blows his nose and sits down hard in the armchair beside the bed.

Geralt is going to be alright. He can _believe_ it, now.

Geralt will be alright.

And if Eskel is home, is asleep so peacefully beside Geralt, then Temeria must be at least nominally under control, and Eskel is clearly not injured at all, so - so Jaskier can finally stop panicking.

Or he can burst into tears. That works too.

Ealdred gives him a startled, rather dismayed look and hurries over to the door, and moments later Aubry is kneeling beside the chair. He opens his arms, and Jaskier collapses into his brother’s embrace, burying his face against Aubry’s shoulder and sobbing. Aubry curls his arms around him and doesn’t say a thing, just holds him close and rocks him gently, as Jaskier might rock Ciri after a nightmare.

“Little brother,” Aubry murmurs once Jaskier’s sobs finally fall silent.

“He’s going to be alright,” Jaskier whispers. “It’s - it’s going to be alright.”

“Aye,” Aubry says, and kisses Jaskier’s forehead. “All will be well.”

*

Ciri wakes up with the dawn, as she usually does. Jas is curled around her protectively, and she wriggles her way free to see that Uncle Eskel is _back_ , thank the gods, and Papa is looking - not _well_ , not even close, but _better_. Better even than when she fell asleep.

She tiptoes out of the room and hurries down to the kitchens, and Mistress Emilia ruffles her hair and helps make up a tray of all of Uncle Eskel and Jas’s favorites, and a second one for Ealdred and Coën and Aubry, and sends Julita to help carry the trays. No one has moved when she gets back; Ealdred is meditating, Aubry is asleep leaning against Jas’s side of the bed in what looks like a slightly uncomfortable position, and Coën is trying his hand at Ciri’s spindle, waiting patiently for the sand in the hourglass to fall. He’s much, much worse at spinning than Ciri is, which is sort of reassuring: at least she’s not _uniquely_ terrible at it.

He gets up to help them set the food out, and then shakes Aubry and Ealdred awake. There are still two hours to go before Papa needs another set of doses, by the chalk-marks on the mantel - Ciri really should have thought of that, and is glad Ealdred or Coën or Jas did.

The smell of food rouses Jas and Uncle Eskel, and both of them bend over Papa for a moment, pressing kisses to his forehead, before they come to join Ciri by the fire. Jas kisses the top of her head.

“You did a wonderful job yesterday, darling cub,” he tells her solemnly. “You did yourself proud.”

Uncle Eskel nods. “Yen told me you organized the trainees. Well done, apprentice.”

Ciri can feel herself blushing. It’s really nice to know Jas and Uncle Eskel _noticed_ , and that they approve.

“What do we do today?” she asks as they dig in to their breakfast. Jas picks up an apple and begins peeling it, watching his hands carefully. Uncle Eskel scrubs a hand through his hair, then grimaces and wipes his palm on his braies.

“I have to talk to Vesemir and see what’s going on in Temeria - and probably send people to Cintra and Redania to reassure Calanthe and Vizimir that we’re not actually planning anything, and also someone to Mahakam to tell them what we’ve done to lift the siege,” he says. “Catmint, can you help me draft letters for all of that?”

“Of course,” Jas says, finishing peeling the apple and handing the peeled fruit to Uncle Eskel, then dipping the peel in honey and biting off the end. Ciri giggles: she’s never understood why Jas likes the _peel_ more than the fruit, but she has a suspicion it’s more to do with the honey than anything else. Uncle Eskel takes a big bite of the apple. “I should ask Yen to call in all the Wolf’s mages and make sure _they_ haven’t figured out whatever loophole Lytta used to break her oath. If you wanted to coordinate the trainees again today, cub, that would be very useful: maybe not more potions, but perhaps seeing if they can help care for the weapons and armor of all of our returned warriors?”

“I can do that,” Ciri says, delighted to be given a _duty_ , not just shuffled off to her tower room to be kept safe. “And we should all take shifts with Papa.”

“So we should,” Uncle Eskel agrees, nodding approval. “Does he drink easily for you, too?”

Ciri nods.

“Then let’s give Jaskier first shift here,” Uncle Eskel decides. “I need a bath -”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Jas puts in, grinning, and Uncle Eskel sighs and rolls his eyes towards the ceiling for a moment.

“Yes, thank you, catmint, very helpful. I need a bath, and to talk to everyone, make sure nothing happened yesterday that I didn’t hear about. Ciri, you can coordinate the trainees. And then you can come down midmorning, and let Jaskier have a turn in the baths -”

He breaks off, and whirls about to stare at the bed. _Ciri_ didn’t hear anything, not with her merely human hearing, nor did Jas, but Ealdred and Coën and Aubry are all on their feet, too. Jas half-tumbles out of his chair and stumbles towards the bed, and Ciri hears the _second_ soft, pained groan.

She lurches up to follow Jas. Papa hasn’t opened his eyes, hasn’t _moved_ at all, but his breath is coming quicker and there’s a line of pain between his eyebrows. Jas bends over him, brushing a hand over Papa’s hair; Uncle Eskel wraps an arm around Ciri’s shoulders and holds her close as they crowd up next to Jas. Papa takes a deep breath and seems to relax a little. Ciri scrubs her hands through her hair and then holds them near Papa’s nose; Uncle Eskel chuckles and kisses her head, murmuring, “Good thinking, cub,” and does the same with his own hair. Jas just curls as close as he can without putting any weight on Papa’s chest.

Papa makes a soft sound like a sigh, and relaxes a little more.

“Beloved,” Jas whispers.

Papa makes another soft sound, low and rough and a little pained, and then -

And then his eyes open.

Ciri swallows hard and then turns and buries her face in Uncle Eskel’s chest and bursts into tears.

*

Eskel wraps his arms tightly around his darling cub, and feels a bit like bursting into tears himself. Geralt’s eyes are a bit hazy, and he looks like he’s not entirely sure what’s going on, but he’s _awake_ , which is - well, frankly, it’s a godsdamned miracle.

“What -” Geralt croaks, and Jaskier puts a finger against his lips.

“Hush, my love,” he says. “Let us get you some water, and we’ll tell you everything, alright?”

“Hm,” Geralt agrees, and Eskel laughs because otherwise he _is_ going to cry.

Ealdred comes over and helps prop Geralt up on a couple of pillows, and Coën brings a mug of water, and Aubry leans out the door and gives orders for one of the servants to bring up a mug or five of good rich broth, and fetch Triss and maybe Yen, and for a minute Eskel just...stands there, breathing in the scent of Geralt _alive_ , and lets Ciri sob against his chest. Jaskier helps Geralt drink, one tiny sip of water at a time.

Geralt drains the mug, but shakes his head a little when Jaskier offers a second one, and flicks his eyes towards Ciri, who has gone from wracking sobs to little hiccuping sniffles.

“Everyone else is fine,” Jaskier says at once. “We’ve just been really, _really_ fucking worried, my love.”

“What he said,” Eskel agrees. “Cub’s been an absolute rock, kept everything together perfectly.” He strokes her hair gently. “Can’t really blame her for crying now.”

Ciri sniffles hard and turns around to give Geralt a watery smile. “You’re _awake_ ,” she says. “I was...I was really scared, Papa.”

“Hm,” Geralt says, and one hand twitches. Ciri tugs away from Eskel to sit down on the edge of the bed and cradle Geralt’s hand against her cheek. “Cub.”

Ciri sniffles again and closes her eyes, clinging tightly to Geralt’s hand.

“Hm,” Geralt says, giving Eskel a meaningful look. Eskel sinks down into the chair that Ealdred has just pushed up behind him, gathers Jaskier into his lap, and reaches out to rest his free hand on Geralt’s shoulder, well above the bandages. Jaskier cuddles close, smelling like worry and relief.

“So,” Eskel says, “the bad news is, you’ve added another country to your holdings, Warlord of the North.”

Geralt sighs, and closes his eyes for a moment. Jaskier chuckles wetly.

“The good news is, as invasions go, it was remarkably quick, and we didn’t lose anyone,” Eskel says. “The new king of Temeria is a lad named Griffin, who has sworn up down and sideways that he’s loyal to you. And -” he breaks off, swallows, and takes a deep breath. “And also, you’re not _dead_ ,” he finishes.

Jaskier nods. “What Eskel said,” he agrees. “You were - you were so _still_ , my love. We were...very worried.”

Geralt winces a little, and then the door opens and Triss comes in with a tray of broth and healing potions, and Eskel gathers Jaskier and Ciri up and moves them out of the way as the sorceress fusses over Geralt. His medallion thrums: she must be doing further healing magic. Out in the corridor, he can hear what must be half the keep crowding around, listening intently, anxiety and hope so thick in the air he could cut it with a butter knife.

“You’re healing well,” Triss proclaims at last. Eskel can hear the Witchers out in the corridor hiss in relief. “You’re not to get up for at least another three days, maybe more. Eskel, Jaskier, Ciri, keep him from doing anything stupid.”

“Yes, Triss,” they all chorus. Geralt hums in amusement.

“I’ll be good,” he promises.

“I will believe that when I see it,” Triss retorts, and then, softly, “Please, Geralt. You were almost - we almost lost you.”

Geralt swallows and nods. “I’ll be good,” he says again, quietly and sincerely.

“See that you are,” Triss says firmly, and beckons Eskel and Jaskier and Ciri back over. “Broth and water, as often as he can drink; keep on with the half-dose potions at least for the rest of today, and I’ll check on him again this evening.”

They all nod. “We’ll take good care of him,” Ciri promises. Triss ruffles her hair.

“I know,” she says, and nods to Eskel, and lets Ealdred offer her his arm to help her out of the room; she’s not nearly as drained as she was yesterday, but Eskel catches Ealdred’s eye and mouths, _Tend her well_ , and the Griffin nods agreement.

Geralt is close to dozing again - healing magic is always a bit soporific - but he drinks obediently when Ciri holds a mug of broth to his lips, and manages to drain the whole thing before his eyes slip shut again and his breathing evens out into the steady rhythm of sleep.

Eskel sighs in relief so vast it nearly hurts, and bends to press a kiss to Geralt’s forehead. “I’m for a bath, and then seeing what sort of chaos I need to organize,” he tells Jaskier.

Jaskier manages a sweet, slightly watery smile. “Go bathe,” he says. “You do reek a bit, my love.”

Eskel chuckles. “Not ‘redolent of the rich odors of my conquests’?”

Jaskier’s smile turns into a genuine laugh, the sound ringing through the room and out into the corridor. “Dreadful man! Absolutely horrid! Shoo, shoo, go get _clean_ , you ridiculous creature!”

Eskel loops an arm around Jaskier’s waist and reels him in to kiss that laugh, lick the taste of joy from his lover’s mouth, and heads out to the baths, collecting the horde of Witchers from the corridor, in a far better mood than he has been for -

Well, since the council meeting that began this whole mess, really.

*

Geralt is, unsurprisingly, a terrible patient. He doesn’t mean to be, Jaskier suspects, but all Witchers are accustomed to being up and _moving_ almost every waking hour, and lying still is not easy for them. Geralt spends as much time in meditation as he can when he’s not asleep, but when he’s awake, he clearly wants to get up, to pace his rooms or venture up to the hall or even out onto the training grounds, to _use_ the wild energy which thrums in his veins. He gets grumpy when he can’t, and his quiet hums turn to muffled growls, and he scowls at everyone around him.

The simplest way to keep him on the bed and in a good mood, thankfully, is one that neither Jaskier nor Eskel minds: lying next to him, kissing him quiet. Geralt _loves_ being kissed, will melt into it and lie quietly and hum contentedly for hours, one hand tangled in his lover’s hair, basking in simple sweet affection.

Ciri, of course, can’t use _that_ method, but Geralt adores his cub: he’ll lie still and listen while she chatters, or answer eagerly when she asks questions about monsters, and doesn’t even seem to notice the time passing until someone flips the hourglass and proclaims it’s time for his potions. And while Ciri is keeping Geralt distracted, Jaskier and Eskel and Vesemir can deal with the political fallout of having conquered another country rather unexpectedly - Calanthe of Cintra is grumpy, and Vizimir of Redania twitchy, but they both have to admit that given the provocation, there was nothing else the Warlord’s army _could_ have done, really, and Calanthe even grumbles, reluctantly, an admission that she found Henselt of Temeria extremely annoying and is willing to see if young Griffin can do any better. So that should all turn out alright in the end. And Griffin _did_ call back the soldiers besieging Mahakam, to the vast relief of the dwarves, and moreover sent the dwarves a very thorough apology, so Jaskier is reasonably sure _that’s_ all under control, too.

So between the three of them, they keep Geralt quiet and mostly even-tempered for the five full days it takes before Triss proclaims he’s back to nearly full health, and can get out of bed, though she forbids him from sparring for at least another three days.

Triss lets him out just before supper - on purpose, Jaskier expects - and they all head for the great hall together. Jaskier has a good idea of what’s going to happen as soon as they walk in, and tugs Geralt’s arm gently, holding him back as Triss and Ciri and Coën and Ealdred and Aubry enter. There’s a brief pause - Jaskier can hear the noise level in the hall drop as Witcher after Witcher realizes what it must mean for _all_ of them to be here - and then Jaskier winks at Eskel, who pulls the door open wide.

Geralt walks in to the sound of the loudest cry of “White Wolf!” that Jaskier has ever heard. It echoes off the walls and transmutes into a howling battle cry, triumph and vicious joy alike, and Jaskier, standing in the doorway, clasps hands with Eskel and sighs with happiness at the sight of their beloved lord taking his rightful place again.

“White Wolf,” Eskel murmurs, the words so full of love and relief that they’re a finer song than any Jaskier has ever sung. Jaskier leans his head against Eskel’s shoulder, knowing he must smell just as loving - and just as relieved.

“Our White Wolf,” he agrees, and Eskel turns his head to brush a brief kiss against Jaskier’s hair and leads the way into the hall to join their beloved lord.

Supper is a purely joyful affair, full of more laughter and ridiculous Witcher antics than any meal has been for a while. Jaskier can’t help laughing at the Cats when half the School ends up in a game of keep-away, tossing the basket of rolls to each other out of the reach of an irritated Aiden while attempting not to spill any of the bread; he catches Geralt snorting amusement, too. Letho challenges Kolgrim to an arm-wrestling contest, and they immediately attract a small crowd of Witchers placing bets and whooping at each fractional movement in either direction. One of the Manticores goes trotting off and returns with a small keg of something that Jaskier knows without even having to ask is both extremely alcoholic and remarkably poisonous, and most of the Manticores are halfway to drunk well before the meal is over, and bellowing the choruses to as many bawdy songs as they can remember in something startlingly close to tune.

And when the meal is over, Jaskier stands to sing for the first time in nearly a week, and is greeted with howling delight by the Witchers, which is really quite flattering every time it happens. He’s not got anything new tonight - he’s been working on _Temeria Overshadowed_ , of course, as well as _The Faithless King_ , but they’re not ready for performance yet - but he picks all the happiest songs he can think of, love songs and humorous ditties alike, and ends on a rendition of the _Ode to Witchers_ , and what seems like every Witcher in the hall sings along.

And then he herds Geralt back to his rooms while Eskel brings Ciri up to her own bedroom for the first time in almost a week. Geralt is already looking a little weary, after only a few hours up and about. He cooperates wordlessly as Jaskier undresses him and then tugs Jaskier into the bed, arranges him sitting against the pillows, and collapses with his head in Jaskier’s lap. Jaskier laughs softly and begins carding his fingers through Geralt’s hair, immensely pleased when Geralt’s eyes slide shut and he begins to rumble deep in his chest with contentment.

“Lark,” he murmurs. “Sing?”

“Always, my wolf,” Jaskier says, beaming. Here in the warmth of Geralt’s rooms, with his beloved dozing on his lap, the only songs which rise to his lips are love songs, and so he sings _Wolf’s Heart_ and _The Maiden’s Question_ and _Returning Home_ , soft and low, watching the faint smile on Geralt’s face and the steady rise and fall of his unbandaged chest. There are more scars on that chest now, but thank the gods, they are _scars_ , not bleeding wounds.

He’s halfway through _Beloved Lord_ when Eskel slips in, closing the door almost silently and stripping out of his clothes without hesitation, then slipping into the bed beside Geralt and curling around him protectively. Somewhat to Jaskier’s surprise, though, as he reaches the climactic verse, Eskel’s warm voice twines with his, and Jaskier stops singing in surprise, letting Eskel carry the tune alone.

“ _Lead me, my beloved lord, and I shall follow ever / I shall not fail you while I live, while blood runs in my veins / I shall not cease to love you till the stars shall fall from heaven,_ ” Eskel sings.

Jaskier picks the song up hastily, taking the narrator’s part: “ _So spake he, never dreaming that his lord should feel the same_.”

Geralt huffs a soft, amused sound, and then, very softly, voice rough and unpracticed and beautiful beyond words, he takes up the lord’s part. “ _Most trusted and beloved’ said the lord whom he had pledged to / ‘all that I have and am lies in your hands and always will / with you beside me, there is nothing in this world that we cannot do / and though the sky may fall, be sure that I shall love you still._ ” He chuckles softly. “Ought to let our lark write all our love confessions.”

Eskel snorts and nuzzles against Geralt’s shoulder. “So we should.”

“How is it possible for the two of you to be the sweetest creatures in creation?” Jaskier asks his wolves, shaking his head in wonder. “Great soft-hearted honey-sweet wolves, your souls as golden as your eyes - _I’ve never learned to fear my wolves / their teeth, their claws, their fearsome guise / I know beneath their snarls they hide / their souls as golden as their eyes -_ That needs work, but I think there’s something to it, don’t you?”

“There’s always something to your songs, catmint,” Eskel says.

“Hm,” Geralt agrees. “Little lark, always singing.”

“Sweetest creatures in creation, I swear,” Jaskier sighs, and nestles further back into the pillows. The head of the bed is mounded with them - they all like having plenty of pillows - and he’s slept sitting up before. To do so tonight, with Geralt’s head in his lap and Eskel wound protectively around both of them, will be no hardship at all. “Sleep, sweet wolves. _Sleep and dream of quiet things / of autumn leaves and mountain streams / of purring cats and cooing doves / and always, always, of my love._ ”

Geralt smiles; Eskel chuckles. “Our lark sings best for us,” he murmurs to Geralt, so softly Jaskier almost doesn’t catch the words, and Geralt hums agreement. Eskel raises one hand and casts a tiny Igni to put out the candles, and Jaskier leans back into the pillows and lets the slow, steady heartbeats of his lovers lull him into peaceful slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for your comments, kudos, and generous support; it means so much to me to know that so many people are enjoying this AU. Please feel free to come say hello on tumblr (inexplicifics), where I tend to spitball headcanons and silly spinoff ideas, or on discord (inexplicifics #2690).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Beloved Lord - Song from "The Shadow of the Mountains Will Not Fall" by Inexplicifics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26157937) by [Milaley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milaley/pseuds/Milaley)
  * [Jaskier's Lullaby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218159) by [Milaley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milaley/pseuds/Milaley)
  * [[Podfic] The Shadow of the Mountains Will Not Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247103) by [AceOfTigers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfTigers/pseuds/AceOfTigers)
  * [Beloved Lord](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27688006) by [ilisidi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilisidi/pseuds/ilisidi)




End file.
